


Seven Seasons of Love

by LadyTP



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Everything, First Kiss, First Love, First Time, Inspired by my own fic, Secret Relationship, challenge to myself writing, happy death after a long happy life, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:33:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29888064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTP/pseuds/LadyTP
Summary: Seven scenes from the lives of Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane: from where it all begun to where it ended –or did it…?Canon divergence AU where Sandor squired in the North and the War of the Five Kings played out somewhat differently. What was not different though, was the pull between these two…'AU'in this case not meaning things would have gone wildly against the norms and social expectations of the time, though.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 14
Kudos: 53





	Seven Seasons of Love

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Seven Autumns With or Without You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27053419) by [LadyTP](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTP/pseuds/LadyTP). 



> And now for something different…once again a home-made challenge that I am a sucker for; how to set rules to my writing just for the heck of it! In this case it is the case of rewriting my fic in another fandom for one pairing to a different fandom and pairing. The challenge comes from the fact that the characters, the setting, the background events and pretty much everything is so completely different… Yet the one constant is love, longing and commitment – and isn’t it what this is all about?
> 
> Many many thanks to [Cecilia1204](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cecilia1204/pseuds/Cecilia1204/) for betaing this work!

_“I – a maiden’s first kiss… who’d have guessed?”_

_“Really, you shouldn’t sell yourself so short!”_

_“Maybe not – but even knowing what I do now, I still can’t believe it.”_

_“You did take me by surprise, that’s true.”_

_“I can’t believe you didn’t slap me for my insolence. You should have.”_

_“Maybe I should! And yet…”_

_“Yet what?”_

_“Maybe we wouldn’t have gone down the path we did if I had.”_

_“Hmph. But we got there in the end, didn’t we?”_

_“So we did - so we did.”_

_**When Sandor kisses Sansa for the first time** _

**SANDOR**

Winterfell had… shrunk. That’s the only word Sandor could think of to describe it, having returned there after almost two years in King's Landing.

The place was smaller than in his memories, as was the Godswood, where he used to hide himself during those early months after he first arrived in the North, protected by majestic branches of old and gnarly trees. He still remembered the quiet that permeated the place, welcome after the heave of activities in the practice yards and battlements of that old stronghold. It had seemed so big and vast – and now it looked just an outgrown and wild garden slapped next to the keep.

And yet when Sandor rode through the gate, everything seemed right and familiar and comforting. The old stones were solid and strong, and the familiar smell of horses, freshly chopped wood and smoke from the smithy filled his nostrils, recently more used to a less palatable mixture of sewage and perfumes in the densely populated Red Keep.

He was home – in his _adopted_ home.

The only thing that would have made his return perfect were the few people who he could tentatively call _friends_ for the first time in his life since… Sandor’s mood darkened when the image of his monstrous brother crossed his mind, but he pushed it aside as soon as it arrived. _No more._

His past had made him shun the company of others, but during his time in service to the Starks, he had learned to be more tolerant of people - at least a selected few. Perhaps somewhat unexpectedly, Hodor the stableboy had welcomed Sandor without the fear, loathing or hostility he had gotten used to. Turnip, the cook’s daughter, was a good friend of Hodor’s and had accepted Sandor as a friend of her friend.

Connecting with them was something Sandor intended to do as soon as he could.

He was not surprised to see nobody in attendance to receive their party, Lord Eddard urging them on like a man possessed for the last legs of their journey. Stark had sent a raven, of course, before departing King's Landing, but that had been weeks ago. They were probably expected to arrive much later, based on the usual pace of travel on that long journey, but Stark had driven his men and himself hard - and here they were now, greeted by an empty yard but for a lonely stable boy and a few chickens.

The party dismounted and men disappeared to see their families and friends, Lord Eddard heading to his lady wife and children. Sandor took his saddlebags and found his way to his old lodgings, sitting down on his cot, wondering what to do next.

He might go to the Godswood, having missed the tranquillity of the place in the hurly-burly of the capital. He might seek Hodor and Turnip out. He might…

Sandor grimaced; there was no way to deny whom he would also like to see, as foolish as it was. Foolish, because she was a noble maiden and the apple in her father’s eye. If Lord Eddard knew that Sandor as much as dared to think of Lady Sansa, he would be appalled.

Yet he couldn’t help it. Even though she was far above his station, they knew each other as one does in a keep where everyone knows everyone else. Mayhap it was due to informality in the North, meaning that even a squire could converse with the ladies of the house.

Lord Eddard’s younger and wilder daughter Arya had dragged Sansa a few times to the evening fires at the back of the kitchen gardens of Winterfell, where young people of the keep often spent time together. Arya herself was a regular guest, as were the young lordlings Robb, Theon and Jon Snow.

Sansa had followed the proceedings demurely and rarely participated in discussions, but for some unfathomable reason, one evening she had seated herself next to Sandor. Encouraged by her enquiries Sandor had told her about King Robert’s request for Lord Eddard to take Sandor as his squire, explaining how he ended up in the North. Sandor didn’t know whys and wherefores for such a request but suspected it had something to do with the king not wanting Lord Tywin to have both Clegane brothers at his beck and call. As it happened, it had suited Sandor just fine, already having bristled at being forced to serve with his tormentor.

Sansa had also asked about his scars - and unlike his standard fabricated response to that question, something had made Sandor reveal to her the _real_ story: the one about the toy knight, Gregor’s cruelty and their father’s lie. It was a story he had never revealed to anyone and couldn’t tell why he had done so that evening. And yet, oddly enough, sharing it and receiving Sansa’s heartfelt validation of the terrible wrong done to him had somehow lessened the burden he had carried ever since that day.

At his arrival Sandor had considered Sansa just another vain, empty-headed girl and in his mind had named her ‘little bird’ after those pretty but useless exotic birds from the Summer Isles – but after that night he had started to pay closer attention to her, even against his better judgment. She was just a child, after all.

However, what she raised in him was nothing untoward but something he hadn’t experienced for a long time: a desire to protect. He hadn’t dared to feel so ever since Gregor had taken the puppies he had been given by their kennel master and drowned them, one after another, until Sandor had learned that the only way to avoid the destruction of things he loved was to abandon them.

Sandor unpacked his meagre belongings deep in thought, his mind returning unbidden to the day of their departure.

* * *

Their party had been farewelled by a large group of well-wishers; family members, companions, fellow soldiers. Sandor had received good journey wishes from many; even though he generally kept to himself, people in the North seemed to accept and respect it. Mikken, the Winterfell smith, had clapped him on the shoulder, Gage the cook had pushed some treats wrapped in a handkerchief into his hand and Hodor had bid his goodbyes with the only word he knew, ‘Hodor’.

Lord Eddard’s family had congregated around him, Lady Catelyn’s usually calm composure ruffled by her obvious distress at seeing her husband ride away. Lady Sansa had kissed her father on the cheek before being pushed aside by Arya in her eagerness to hug her father.

Sansa had hovered at the edge of the crowd for a moment and then surprised Sandor by coming towards him. In the general commotion, nobody had paid any attention to her, but Sandor had been taken aback when he had understood Sansa wanted to bid her goodbyes – to _him_. It had unsettled him and not knowing what to say, Sandor had shuffled in his spot, finally blurting out whatever first came to his mind.

“I wish you joy, Lady Sansa, in our absence. At least you don’t have to see this ugly visage here anymore.”

She had stiffened as if Sandor had slapped her, then straightened, and suddenly, right in front of Sandor’s eyes, transformed from a demure child to someone much older and bolder. Later Sandor thought he had seen a glimpse of the strong and bold woman Sansa would grow up to be; resolute and unflinching.

She had stared at him fiercely in the eye.

“I’ll let you know your visage is not ugly and I gain no particular joy for not seeing it here anymore. I came to wish you a good journey but I can see that it is much more likely that you will not care for such wishes, and undoubtedly will forget me soon enough when you get to the South.”

Sandor had stared at her in bewilderment. What had gotten into her head to ever think so? But then Lady Catelyn had called for Sansa and she had walked away, transforming back to an obedient little lady instead of the fierce maiden from just a moment ago.

When they had ridden out of the keep, Sandor had turned to look behind his shoulder and had seen an auburn-haired figure standing by the gate, giving one more wave. Unless Sandor’s eyes deceived him, it looked as if it was directed at him, not at her father. Maybe he had only imagined it - but nonetheless, Sandor had raised his hand and waved back, staring at the figure until the view became hidden by the trees as the road took a turn.

And so Sandor Clegane had left Winterfell.

* * *

Sandor decided to visit the Godswood and while sitting by the pond, contemplating its dark surface, he received a surprise visitor.

“Sandor Clegane, so it’s really you.”

He turned and saw Sansa walking towards him – except it was not the young Lady Sansa he remembered. No, this was someone much older, more grown-up and more beautiful. The girl with thin limbs and childish features had matured to a tall young woman, her features sharpened and refined into an image of the Maiden herself. She even walked graciously, drawn up to her considerable height.

“Lady Sansa.” Sandor was at loss for words. Yes, it had been almost two years, but to see her so changed… he hadn’t expected it, still carrying an image of a girl-child in his head. A child in need of protection – whereas this woman seemed self-assured and strong.

“I saw Father already. Your return took us all by surprise, we expected you at the earliest in a few days.” Sansa stopped in front of him and finally Sandor had the sense to close his dropped jaw. He stayed seated though.

“Lord Eddard was in a hurry,” he said, stating the obvious.

“I know – and Mother is glad for it. As am I.”

They stared at each other, Sandor not knowing what to say and Sansa apparently not being in a hurry to address why she was in the Godswood.

“You have grown,” Sandor finally grunted.

Sansa looked at him then, her gaze travelling from the top of his head to his still travel-splattered boots.

“So have you. Not perhaps in height – but you look bigger. Stronger.”

That much was true. Sandor had taken to training with a single-minded determination to keep himself busy while Lord Eddard had counselled King Robert and spent his time in council chambers. His muscles were bigger and his shoulders broader and there was nobody in the Red Keep who could stand up to him now – except for his brother, who luckily had spent most of the time in the Westerlands.

“It has been some time,” Sandor muttered, discomfited by the awareness that the child he had expected to see was no more.

“I am glad to see you safe.” Sansa turned towards the pond and for a while they both stared at it, mesmerised by the play of insects at the surface.

“Have you seen Hodor and Turnip yet?” Sansa asked.

“Not yet. But I saw Gage and he told me everyone will be at the evening fires tonight.”

“Good. Maybe I’ll be there too, a bit later.” Dropping that bolt from the blue, Sansa turned and walked away, leaving Sandor staring at her back in confusion. Why wouldn’t she spend time with her family at her father’s return?

Yet he found himself taking a bath and putting on his best clothes that night.

* * *

The evening fires were as he remembered: a shared, jovial occasion open to everyone, servants or household members alike, to exchange news and gossip and company or just to draw a breath after a long day of duties. Many romances had been brewed there and more than one marriage and several babes had resulted from couples meeting there.

Before the meal Sandor had gone to see Hodor, who had welcomed him with the widest grin and excited “Hodor, Hodor, Hodor!” He was there now, as was Turnip, and although she had grown too, she was still definitively a child, unlike Sansa.

Somebody had brought strongwine to the gathering, several skins of it making the rounds. Sandor took a deep sip and swallowed, its fiery taste familiar.

Several people greeted him warmly, and their welcome surprised him, although it probably shouldn’t have. In King's Landing he had again gotten used to hostility and sideways glances people threw at him, condemning him because of his looks and his family name, so returning to Winterfell to a warmer reception threw him off his balance at first.

True to her promise, Sansa arrived later with Robb, Theon, Jon and Arya. The family meal must have been over, Lord and Lady Stark having retired to their private homecoming feast. Sandor didn’t want to think about it – it was hard to imagine the stern Lord Eddard and perhaps even sterner Lady Catelyn as lovers, but the warmth between them was unmistakable.

To push such awkward thoughts away, Sandor reached for the skin again, his fingers brushing against Sansa’s, who had seated herself next to him without him noticing.

Sansa was spluttering and coughing, obviously having decided to take a sip too. Just as well neither Robb nor Jon noticed it, as they might have frowned upon such unladylike behaviour and sent her away and Sandor wasn’t ready for that, not yet. Sandor took the skin and moved it quickly forward to draw attention away from Sansa.

The evening went on, punctured by stories and news from the South, shared by those who had just returned. People laughed and talked and insects buzzed in the descending twilight, their dance among the flames reminding Sandor of all those other nights of shared stories under the moonlight. It was a pleasant memory, made even more pleasant by the comfortable warmth spreading from his throat through his body, the strongwine doing its job admirably.

Sandor observed Sansa as they sat, trying not to be obvious about it. He still couldn’t believe how much she had changed, becoming a woman. Not in the same mould as Lady Catelyn, regal and handsome with a commanding presence, but rather, much gentler and softer.

The thought sobered Sandor and he sat up straighter, the skin in his hand forgotten. A memory of an unsavoury event from two years ago in King's Landing washed over him and he suppressed an urge to swear out loud.

He stared at the flames and in them, saw the face of another young woman, almost a girl, also with beautiful blue eyes and delicate features. Meladie had been the daughter of one of the cooks in the Red Keep, a maiden of low birth and poor financial prospects. She had been a gentle and kind soul just like Sansa – but too beautiful for her own good.

Ser Wesser, a hedge knight in the king’s service, had liked the look of the girl well enough and made his interest known. Her father had approved his courting of his daughter, obviously hoping to secure a respectable marriage. A cook didn’t have a septa or a sworn shield for her daughter’s protection but had relied on the word of honour from Ser Wesser to treat her honourably – but that word had clearly meant nothing to the scoundrel, the initially vivacious and outgoing maiden soon becoming withdrawn and skittish and losing the colour in her cheeks.

Sandor had heard the gossip in the servants’ hall but everyone had just looked away, pretending not to notice – if the father didn’t interfere on his daughter’s behalf, it wasn’t their matter to intervene in. And initially Sandor had been one of those men.

Yet when one day Meladie had shown up in the hall with splotched, red eyes and bruises on her wrists, it had rubbed Sandor the wrong way and the images of drowned puppies and flashes of another young girl with blue eyes had pushed him to act.

He wasn’t a stranger to what happened between men and women. Beddings outside and before wedlock were officially frowned upon but their existence was an open secret. Sandor didn’t care about it either way, having concluded it was none of his business what others did. Yet it sounded only fair that both parties had to want it, and it was obvious that the girl didn’t.

So it was that one day when Ser Wesser and Sandor were sparring in the practice yard with longswords, after overcoming the cocky youth easily, Sandor had pressed the tip of his sword against his exposed throat and told him in no uncertain terms what would happen to him if he didn’t leave the girl alone, nevermind whether he intended to eventually marry her or not. No maid deserved a husband who would treat a woman like that. The other men in the yard pretended not to see what was going on and that, intensified by the tickle of cold steel on his skin, was enough to convince the hedge knight that Sandor was serious.

The gossip in the servants’ hall soon died down and Meladie started to smile again.

Sandor would have been happy to leave it at that, but what he didn’t count on was how one evening as he was sitting in his usual place of meditation on highest rampart of the Red Keep, staring at the sunset whose colours and hues fascinated him endlessly, Meladie had snuggled next to him. Thinking she perhaps wanted to offer her thanks, Sandor had expected her to say something – but instead had felt her hand on his thigh. High enough, and staying there long enough to make sure that the gesture couldn’t be misunderstood – and for a fleeting moment Sandor had been curious, tempted even.

Yet he had declined. He hadn’t faced Ser Wesser only for the girl to think she owed Sandor something. So he had removed the girl’s hand from his thigh - not unkindly – and the girl had accepted it. She had even appeared relieved, which in some twisted way had stung Sandor’s pride. He knew his face alone was enough to scare maidens away, but otherwise, he would have been a good catch for a cook’s daughter. Any maiden like that would have been lucky to have him, wouldn't they?

Had it been even just a short time later, Sandor might have taken up what was offered, by then having gained more experience in such matters. His fellow soldiers had taken him to brothels and those short moments of human connection, no matter how brief and pretended, had been a welcome distraction from life’s monotony. Still, they had meant nothing more than a moment of fleeting pleasure - and that was fine by him.

Remembering Meladie after seeing Sansa, however, now gnawed on Sandor. He knew the situation was completely different, Sansa being a noble maiden and well protected, but still… He had already heard that suitors had started to gather in Winterfell to vie for Lady Sansa’s hand. In the North it was customary to let the suitor and the maiden spend time together, noble maidens often attended by her septa.

Sandor stopped paying attention to the discussion, instead fidgeting with the empty wineskin and frowning, trying to get to the bottom of his sudden discomfort. It didn’t take long for it to crystallize.

_Who is defending Sansa? If a suitor behaves inappropriately, is that old wrinkled septa going to be enough to protect her? Would she even know when a man is crossing the line?_

Sandor didn’t entertain any mistaken notions about young lordlings, no matter how high their birth or old their name. If he had learned anything on his travels, it was that men were the same, wherever they were. Some decent, some depraved, and innocent maidens often found themselves being preyed upon. In the case of a noble maiden like Sansa, even a scoundrel wouldn’t have dared to go as far as claiming her maidenhead, but even a lady may not escape unwanted kisses or groping if a man was determined enough.

 _How was_ _Sansa navigating those treacherous waters?_

Sandor felt a cold squeeze in his innards. He grabbed the half-full skin and drank deep, the fire of the distilled wine burning his throat as it went down.

_Not my business. I can’t protect her. It is her Lord Father’s duty, he has to take care of it._

Telling it to himself didn’t help.

* * *

As the evening went on, the others started to yawn and talk about retiring for the night. Robb, Theon and Jon disappeared, unexplainably leaving Sansa and Arya behind – Sandor suspected too much strongwine had contributed to such neglect. Arya left next, her yawns having grown bigger and bigger, and gradually everyone else disappeared too.

Finally it was just Sansa and Sandor sitting on the low bench, staring at the dwindling fire. Sandor was not in a hurry to send her on her way, knowing that soon enough they would fall back into their positions; Sansa with her family and septa and lessons, he with Ser Rodrick and training and patrols. He concluded it to be up to him now to escort Sansa to her family quarters when she wanted to leave - but not quite just yet.

The night was unusually warm, the heat of the day still lingering all around them. Sandor could hear owls hooting behind the walls of the keep, and rustling of mice and rats on their nightly outings. They didn’t talk – there was no need for it. The silence was oddly companionable and if not for the persistent sinking feeling at the bottom of Sandor’s belly, put there by his morbid musings of the cook’s daughter, the night might have been perfect.

Since it was only the two of them left, Sandor stared at Sansa boldly, there being no need to be mindful of the presence of others. He had drunk more than he had intended and seeing Sansa’s face flushed and her eyes unnaturally bright, so open and vulnerable, she too apparently having imbibed on the wineskin more than what was appropriate, made the imagined threat on her virtue loom large.

“Are there many suitors already seeking your company?” Sandor asked, startling Sansa.

Sansa frowned, her brows forming a fierce arch. “Suitors? There are a few, I think. They talk to me and I believe their fathers are talking to my parents.”

“Anyone you know well?”

Sansa prodded one of the burned husks, fallen from the fire, with a stick. Her face was scrunched into a serious look she used to have when she was thinking – something that the years hadn’t changed.

“Well, there is Harrion Karstark… he is an old friend of the family.“ Her mouth curved into a slow smile and Sandor felt a sudden urge to punch young Karstark, no matter whose son he was.

While he was grappling with that unexpected impulse, Sansa got serious again and glanced at Sandor under her brow. “No serious suitors as yet. Mother says I am too young for that.”

As quick as it arrived, Sandor’s irritation dissipated. Yet, he was on a mission and so he pushed forward.

“Do any of those suitors behave inappropriately? Is anyone too forward?” Sandor was unsure how to approach the topic; men and women didn’t usually discuss those things openly and despite having no illusions about such matters, he assumed Sansa to be ignorant - being a young maiden and all.

“Too forward? What do you mean?” Sansa looked at Sandor as if he was suddenly sprouting horns, asking such an odd question. Her cheeks were flaming, either due to strongwine or the fire, and at that moment she looked exactly like the statue of The Maiden in the Great Sept of Baelor Sandor visited once; adorned with bright colours and richly ornamented.

Sandor shook his head to rid himself of the image, it doing no favours for his ability to focus on the matter at hand.

“I mean, has anyone tried to touch you?”

Sansa continued to glare at him, uncomprehending, so to demonstrate what he meant, Sandor laid his hand on Sansa’s arm and squeezed it.

“Like this?”

Sansa stared at it, squinting. She must have drunk more than Sandor thought to be so slow to react, the silence between them stretching on and on. Or could she truly be so naïve as not to take Sandor’s meaning? She couldn‘t, really – or could she?

_Gods!_

Frustrated by Sansa’s lack of reaction, Sandor decided he had to be blunter with his approach in order to make her understand what he meant. He shifted closer and turned to her, lifted his other hand to take a hold of her by the neck and pulled her closer. He didn’t intend to _actually_ kiss her, only show what an unwanted advance looked like in a manner that couldn’t be misconstrued.

Yet he misjudged his grip or maybe Sansa fell too much forward due to her state or maybe the bench they sat on shifted, throwing them both off the balance – but the end result was that their lips met. Only briefly, but long enough for Sandor to register the softness of Sansa’s lips, the sudden stillness of her body and his own ragged breathing.

Sansa should have reacted to _that._ She should have shuddered, she should have screamed, she should have shoved him away.

She didn’t do any of those things.

As it was, it was Sandor who scrambled back in haste, feeling all kinds of awkward. To hide it, he mumbled: “Has anyone done something like _that_ to you? It is improper and if anyone tries it, you should scream and slap them.”

“Oh.” Sansa looked down, her brow furrowed, then she licked her lips. “Should I scream now, then? Slap you?”

Sandor laughed, some of his embarrassment melting away. “Probably better that you don’t. I like my head on my shoulders just fine, and if Lord Stark thought I made unwanted advances... Besides, it was just to show you what I mean. For education.”

_Yes, it was all about education. Showing her what is wrong._

Sandor grabbed the skin sitting next to his leg and took a swig, swirling it in his mouth and regretting it immediately. He hadn’t had a proper taste of Sansa but when he thought of it, he could imagine it from the fleeting whiff of their shared breath at the moment when he had removed his mouth from hers.

It had been wrong, it had been a mistake – but Sandor couldn’t truly regret it. However unintended and fleeting, it had been better than any other kiss he had ever given or received – as few of them as there were.

Sansa wrung her hands in her lap. She had lowered her head so Sandor couldn’t see her eyes, but at least she hadn’t moved away in horror, instead stayed sitting where she was, still right next to Sandor.

“So, has anyone?” Sandor returned to his original question. If he was claiming this to be for educational purposes, he better follow it through.

“No, nobody has done anything like that.” Sansa’s words came out slowly, their tone thoughtful rather than angry.

Sandor stopped holding his breath, relieved. All things notwithstanding, at least it seemed that Sansa hadn’t been in immediate danger of preying lordlings.

 _Not in danger from anyone else._ The irony of the situation didn’t escape him, nor the fact that it meant this had been Sansa’s first kiss. Suddenly he was stung with regret: Sansa deserved her first kiss to be with someone she cared about, some young lord from a noble house.

Sandor scrubbed a hand down his face and groaned, desperately trying to think of a way to salvage the situation. Not for him, but for _Sansa_. How not to spoil her prospects of romantic knightly love with his ill-advised attempt to _educate_ her?

“In case you get any foolish notions into your head, this did _not_ happen. Just ignore this, this was nothing, not even a peck.”

It was a blatant lie - Sandor could still feel Sansa’s lips under his own, and how soft they were.

“You can save your first real kiss for some proper lordling, some brave knight,” Sandor continued, not sure anymore who he tried to convince; himself or Sansa.

“Hmmm. What’s done is done,” Sansa sighed, finally raising her head to look at him. “Besides, it could be worse.”

“How?” Sandor was curious. Sansa had taken the whole thing better than he would have expected – and at the same time, she had confirmed that nobody had tried to take advantage of her youth and naivety, which alone lifted some weight off Sandor’s shoulders.

“It could have been Hodor.” Sansa succeeded in staying serious only for a moment longer before she burst out giggling.

Sandor knew she was not serious; both Stark girls liked Hodor and would have never made fun of him – but in this case, that Sansa would think of it at this moment when she could have said much worse, eased Sandor’s mind and he joined Sansa’s laughter with a deep chuckle.

**Author's Note:**

> A slow start, but as these seven scenes all relate to more or less momentous moments in their life together, it has to start from somewhere… The next chapter is another scene with a profound impact on these two.  
> It has been a while since I finished my last Sansan fic, but for any of my old and new readers out there, do say hi and share your thoughts! And don’t be shy to visit me on Tumblr either at [ladytp](https://ladytp.tumblr.com/), if you feel like it... 😁


End file.
